


Thin fingers, wrapped around your heart

by lehnsherry



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Banter, Denial, Falling In Love, Gentleness, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rough Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lehnsherry/pseuds/lehnsherry
Summary: Jaskier has a habit of sleeping around, lately withmen.Geralt shouldn't give a shit, but he does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 606
Kudos: 5701
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Bruss, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for The Witcher and I'm only familiar with the series and some bits of the lore, so please be gentle with me.

Geralt is in no position to judge anyone on their choice of companions in bed; a great many of his own problems spring from spending more money on women than on food. On top of that, other than paid company, his bedfellows of late have been mostly of the dangerous, slightly unhinged, magical sort. He shouldn't be casting any stones.

And he hasn't been, either. Not at Jaskier. The bard's problems are the exact opposite of his own; he wastes all of his earnings, and much of Geralt's as well, on perfumes and clothes and pastries and instruments and other _things,_ so that at the end of the day he barely has enough money for a bed, and much less for someone to warm it for him.

This doesn't seem to bother Jaskier. He's always been adamant that his natural charms and ethereal vocal gifts get him between enough thighs and into enough trouble as it is.

For years, it's Geralt who drags him out of said trouble by the back of his shirt, or in the numerous cases he's not wearing one, by the hair. From what he sees during these moments and from how admiringly Jaskier speaks about the 'fairer sex', Geralt had no reason to think Jaskier is anything but very enthusiastically interested in women, and only women.

That is, until suddenly, he's not.

Geralt doesn't know if Jaskier has always swung both ways, or of it's somehow a recent development, but he sure finds out about it rather suddenly.

The first time Geralt sees him with a man, they've stayed the night at a slightly run-down roadside inn. Or, more accurately, Geralt had dropped Jaskier and Roach off at the inn and walked straight to the whorehouse next door. He spends a very nice night there, first half of it fucking a plain but feisty redheaded woman, and the second half sleeping, curled up with his head on her chest, her fingers gentle in his hair. After paying her and sharing one last long, lazy kiss, he goes back to the inn for breakfast. After the night, he only has coin for a bowl of bland porridge, but at least it files off the sharpest edge of his hunger.

"Where's the bard", he asks the harried-looking boy who brings him the porridge, his hands full of plates.

"You the witcher he sang about last night?"

Geralt looks down at his pendant, the back up at the boy. Last he checked, his hair was still very white and his swords were very much on display. The boy chuckles awkwardly.

"Right. He hasn't been down for breakfast, that one, has he. Last I knew he was in the last room at the back… Up the stairs, down the hallway, last door on the left." He looks at Geralt expectantly, waiting for a coin for the tremendous trouble of relaying this information. Geralt rises, instead, taking one of the plates off the boy’s arm.

“Put it on his tab”, he growls as the boy yelps in indignation. Geralt leaves him there and goes to find Jaskier.

He climbs the rickety stairs, examining the plate. Jaskier’s in for a treat: more of the bland, grey porridge, a dry slice of bread and a small apple. Geralt reaches the right door and consequently almost gets it slammed in his face. Only his superhuman reflexes save his nose as he startles backwards to avoid being trampled by the man exiting what was supposed to be Jaskier’s room.

“Sorry”, the man chuckles good-naturedly. “Didn’t see you there! Did I catch you with the door?”

“Hmmr”, Geralt says, staring at him and trying to discern what he’s doing here. Looking at him is like looking into the mirror on a bad day; the man is in his forties, crow's feet at the corners of his light brown eyes and steel grey stubble covering his cheeks. He’s got blond hair, pale yellow, pulled into a knot at the back of his head. He’s tall, but not quite as tall as Geralt, and muscular too, but not as strong as Geralt is, and he’s a little soft around the middle. Geralt sees this because the man’s shirt is hanging open. His trousers aren’t properly tied either.

“Wait!” comes Jaskier’s voice from inside the room. “You forgot your coat!”

Jaskier bounds out, a brown bundle of fabric in his hands.

“Oh!” He stops at the door as he sees Geralt. “Good morning!”

Jaskier blushes fiercely and looks at the stranger, then back at Geralt, then at the dirty floor. His hair is a mess and there’s no shirt in sight, and his neck and chest are littered with red and purple marks. Geralt feels like growling.

“Oh, thanks, love”, the strange man says sheepishly and takes the coat from Jaskier’s suddenly limp fingers, shrugging it on. Then he looks between the ashamed-looking bard and the angry-looking witcher, and blanches.

“Ohhhh”, he says, cringing good-naturedly. “Darling, have I put you in trouble with your man?”

Jaskier seems to shake himself out of his surprise and laughs. “No, Geralt’s just a friend of mine.”

“Good, no harm done then”, the man grins and leans in, to _kiss_ Jaskier. The bard makes a small sound of half-hearted protest, but wraps an arm around him, answering the kiss with unexpected enthusiasm. Geralt considers turning away and going to get a tankard of ale, but the kiss is soon over and the man leaves, with a promise to gladly see Jaskier again if he ever stops in this town in the future.

“Well!” Jaskier squeaks as Geralt finally pushes past him and into the room. He distractedly takes the plate from Geralt and takes a bite of the apple, looking everywhere but at Geralt. He takes the chance to look around the room; it’s small, furnished only with a bed, a chair and a wash basin on a tiny table. The bed is rumpled and smells like it’s seen its fair share of action during the night. Geralt wrinkles his nose and looks at Jaskier, who’s just standing there, looking embarrassed but defiant.

“Do you have a problem?” he asks, stepping closer, delicate hands clenched into fists around the edges of the plate. Geralt watches the marks on his skin instead.

“I didn’t know you bedded men”, he says, and is a little surprised at Jaskier’s answering bark of laughter at the words.

“I fall in love with most people I meet, not just the beautiful maidens. How do you even miss something like that?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He supposes he always just… thought Jaskier wasn’t like that. That he said all kinds of things, but that he didn’t mean them as such.

“And, frankly” Jaskier continues, huffing now, still red, “how is this any of your business?”

Geralt still doesn’t say anything. Jaskier is right: it isn’t any of his business. Jaskier can spend his nights where he likes; they don’t have the kind of friendship where they care about things like that. Geralt has nothing against those who prefer their own sex, or both, as seems to be Jaskier’s case. Geralt has no problem with Jaskier fucking men.

That kiss just didn’t look right. Jaskier was so small in the man’s grasp. He’s not a small man, but next to that stranger he looked it. That man's teeth left marks on Jaskier’s skin like he had the right, and Geralt isn’t… comfortable with that, somehow.

“You didn’t do it for money, right?” he has to ask.

“Oh, fuck you!” Jaskier squawks, rounding on Geralt again, almost stepping on his toes. The edge of the plate digs into Geralt's chest and he catches Jaskier by the arms as a precaution; Jaskier looks like he wouldn’t be above taking a bite out of Geralt’s nose.

“I’m not that desperate!” the bard growls, his voice hoarse, not at all musical right now. “My singing is enough to keep me fed, thanks very much!”

“Sure is. I’m just…” Geralt considers, “looking out for you.”

Jaskier laughs, stilling in his hold, and the sound is somehow brittle. “Right, 'course you are. You’re not my dad, are you?”

“Hmm”, he says. Offers his palms in a placating gesture, looking to end this… discussion, argument, whatever this is.

Jaskier huffs but then smiles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, my friend, I’m quite fine. My… sleeping habits are nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

Geralt shrugs, stealing the slice of bread off the plate and taking a bite, enjoying Jaskier’s yelp of offense more than the taste. If there’s a simmer of some unpleasant feeling at the pit of his stomach, no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Please leave a comment or come yell about this show with me over on Tumblr, I'm @trevardes on there!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time, Geralt sees much more than he ever wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelmingly positive response, I love you guys <3
> 
> Things get a little more explicit in this chapter, and Geralt is a sad, jealous dumbass.

Geralt puts the whole episode out of his mind as an anomaly, just a fluke of some kind. Jaskier seems to go back to wooing women, and Geralt no longer has to think of him looking _small_ in someone’s arms.

Their roads differ soon after, Geralt going east following rumours of possible work, and Jaskier staying in a town to entertain the bored nobility. Geralt kills a monster, gets his money and spends it, and kills another monster, and so it goes, until almost a year has passed. He has Roach for a companion, and everything is as it always has been; bleak and sad, but tolerable. Sometimes the money is good, and that’s enough.

Then he finds himself in a town again, chasing down a monster that eventually turns out to be just a man and a knife, sloppy enough with his victims to appear animalistic. It’s not really his job, but Geralt drags him to the town hall anyway. After the man hangs, he goes to find a tavern. On the way he hears of a bard at an inn on the other side of town, singing of unusual things, sorceresses and witchers. He changes course, just to make sure, and Roach huffs but goes where he bids.

By the time he sees the light shining from the windows of the building, night has come and it’s beginning to rain. He shakes water out of his hair and watches Roach do the same. He leaves her at the stable, making sure there’s fresh hay for her. She’s a good horse, and he pays more for her upkeep than he expects to pay for his own.

-

“Do you have a bard here”, he asks the pleasant-looking plump woman at the counter. She's polishing some glasses and dressed in a white apron over a simple brown dress. Her face brightens at his words. 

“Oh yes”, she laughs, “he brings in quite a bit of traffic, bless him! Jaskier, he said his name was, do you know him?”

“He’s a...friend. Where can I find him?”

“Oh dear, I’m so glad he has a friend like you! Please go up and see if he needs help.”

“What.”

“He’s keeping such bad company here, I'm worried for the boy”, the woman sighs sadly. At Geralt’s angry, questioning look, she goes on.

“They just went up to his rooms a minute ago, but the fellow he was with wasn’t anyone I know, looked all rough around the edges and he said such horrible things, I tell you. I heard him loud and clear though he was trying to be all quiet like. How he was going to make our poor bard beg - I can’t very well interfere in the guests’ business, but...”

Geralt doesn’t even thank her, he just demands the room number and then runs up to Jaskier’s room and, without stopping to listen or to think, kicks in the door.

He expects to find some bastard threatening the bard, demanding his earnings, but the sight that meets him is rather different. In hindsight, he should've expected it, but in the moment it comes as a shock.

Geralt finds Jaskier in bed with this 'villain', and clearly they've been there for longer than a minute. If there's any begging happening, it's for a different set of reasons than the innkeeper's lady probably imagined.

Jaskier's legs are resting on the other man's shoulders; he's bent in half and moaning sweetly as a whore as the stranger fucks into him, hard. The door crashes into the wall before Geralt can stop it, and the men on the bed come to a stuttering halt.

Jaskier is lying on his back amid wrecked sheets and scattered clothes, hips arched high off the bed, his hair a sweaty mess and his cheeks red. He scrambles to turn and look at the door, and lets out a punched-out sound at seeing Geralt. Or it might not be just that; the bastard holding him down stays… inside him, not quite stopping his hips from moving. Geralt can’t see _everything_ and looks quickly away anyway, ashamed of even trying to see. No-one’s supposed to see that -

“The fuck do you want?” The man growls. This one has grey hair, thick and long enough to reach his shoulders, and a beard in the same shade to match. He seems short but well built, tattooed along his arms and thighs. Jaskier looks thin and pale in his hold, squirming under Geralt’s gaze.

“Hmm”, he says, still looking, making sure Jaskier doesn’t seem hurt or distressed, isn’t tied up or bruised or cut anywhere. The only thing marring his skin is the touch of the stranger, and Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind that.

“Geralt, what the hell -” he pants. Geralt turns away.

“Apologies. I’ll find you later, Jaskier”, he growls and tugs the door closed behind him with more force than is needed. Part of him expects Jaskier to disentangle himself, gather up his clothes and scramble after Geralt, but of course that doesn’t happen.

Walking away, he hears the bed creaking again and the stranger asking something. A few more steps, slowing, until in the room, Jaskier whines again, pleading, enthusiastic. Geralt starts to walk faster.

-

He finds another place to sleep, and in the morning, he prepares to leave the town before the bard has a chance to find him. Maybe it’s rude and will make their relationship even more awkward than it has to be after last night, but he doesn’t care. Seeing Jaskier here wasn’t part of his original plan anyway, and being around him now would surely feel uncomfortable. The image of him with that man is burned into Geralt’s retinas, and he isn’t sure he could see Jaskier through it if they were to meet again now. It's better to just leave and face Jaskier again when he's had time to calm down and forget.

Except Geralt of Rivia has a notoriously shitty life, and luck is once again decidedly _not_ on his side. Just as he's picked Roach up from the stable, fitted her with the saddle and his bags, jumped up into the saddle and led her to the road, he hears his name called in that familiar voice.

"Geralt!" Jaskier calls out, and Geralt can hear him running.

He doesn't slow down, but doesn't urge Roach into a gallop either, even though escaping would likely be easier than the conversation that's about to happen.

Jaskier catches up to them fast, huffing and puffing and lamenting his physical condition and inability to run for any respectable amount of time. Geralt chances a glance at him, and regrets it immediately. Jaskier is smiling in lazy satisfaction despite his shortness of breath. He looks like the cat that got the cream, and slowing down, he walks exactly like he's been fucked silly; hips all loose and swinging, and the slightest limp in his step. Maybe Geralt wouldn’t notice anything out of place if he didn’t _know,_ but now it’s all he can see.

“Didn’t know you were in town!” Jaskier says and adjusts the shoulder straps of his huge bag and his lute. Geralt grunts noncommittally, and Jaskier takes it as a cue to update him on everything that’s happened in the bard’s life since they last saw each other. There are stories of courts and adventures and beautiful women all over the Northern Kingdoms, a few songs as well for events Jaskier has already turned into ballads and rhymes.

Geralt is content to listen, only answering the occasional question with a few words or an affirming hum. They fall into this rhythm so easily it shocks him, and he has to grit his teeth not to say something and break the peace. He won't ask what Jaskier's doing here with him when there are clearly other things - other people - he could be doing, because that’s none of his business. He looks on ahead along the winding road, letting Jaskier’s steady stream of speech and half-finished pieces of new songs lull him into a companionable calm.

Neither of them mentions last night, like it didn’t happen at all, but silently Geralt acknowledges that though he’ll never say a word of it to Jaskier himself, there are certain nameless, hurt and ugly feelings squeezing his ribcage like a vice.

Eventually he’ll have to face them and try to get rid of them somehow, but for now, maybe he can let himself tease the bard with deadpan sarcasm and take the sound of his answering laughter, and hide it in a secure little box in his mind, to treasure and to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Geralt", Jaskier says some months later, covered in ghoul blood as they're making their way towards a nearby town to collect their reward, "Are you alright?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, you're all lovely. <3
> 
> -
> 
> The last chapter keeps getting longer and longer, so I might end up splitting it in two and making this a five-parter after all.
> 
> -
> 
> Everything goes well for Geralt and Jaskier for a while, but apparently I feel the show didn't give us enough of Geralt saying hurtful things to Jaskier, so... here we are.

The third time Geralt witnesses it happening is almost two years later.

In the meantime, he and Yennefer have crashed and burned, for what he thinks is the last time. He loves her still, in a way, and always will. She’s the same, but they always burn each other in a way that might feel good in the heat of the moment, but ultimately leaves him feeling charred and a little less than he was before.

She wants everything, demands everything, of the world, of herself, of her lovers… and Geralt acknowledges he can’t give her that.

"It's okay. I know", she tells him once when he's buying a highly dangerous potion from her, "much better than you do."

He doesn't understand what she's saying, and tells her so. She only smiles that beautiful, scary smile. 

“You ought to be going”, she whispers and kisses his cheek, sending him on his way.

It should feel like a loss, leaving her, but it doesn't. He knows they still share a friendship, a close companionship, and that won't change. And as he goes, his feet leading him to where he last saw a certain bard, Yennefer’s words echo in his ears, feeling like a blessing.

Every time he sees Jaskier, there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his skull, a pull towards something. Sometimes it feels like it’ll pull him into pieces if he faces it, and after those moments he spends months on end away from Jaskier, working himself dry and drowning himself in ale and women and loneliness.

-

"Geralt", Jaskier says some months later, covered in ghoul blood as they're making their way towards a nearby town to collect their reward, "Are you alright?"

Jaskier is covered in blood; of course Geralt’s not alright. It’s not his Jaskier's blood, but the sight makes Geralt conjure up a thousand scenarios in which it is. He feels restless, like a spooked horse, and keeps looking cautiously around, ready to murder anything that as much as takes a too-long glance at the bard.

He won’t say any of that though; Jaskier would only laugh and tease him for being a mother hen, and no-one wants that.

"What do you think", Geralt says evenly, indicating the nasty wound in his shoulder with his other hand. Jaskier bandaged it to the best of his ability after the fight, but that's not saying much.

"I _think_ that you're a big strong witcher who's had much worse than a little ghoul bite, _and_ we’re going straight to a healer too. You'll be fine. That's not what I mean - you seem distracted."

"I don't know what you mean", Geralt growls and makes an effort to look normal.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that”, Jaskier persists. “I’m your friend.”

Yes, you are, and that feels like both too much and too little, Geralt doesn’t say.

“I’m fine”, he grumbles instead, and though Jaskier pouts at him, he seems to agree to let it go. There is a moment of blessed silence, and Geralt thinks the subject has been dropped, until he notices Jaskier taking up his lute.

The bard flashes him a mischievous grin and strums out a few experimental chords.

 _"Oh, could anyone say”,_ he begins singing, drawing out the vowels, _“what thing possibly may, be making my witcher so grim?_

Geralt reaches out to try and steal the lute, anything to save him from this, but Jaskier jumps nimbly away and keeps singing.

 _“I do try my best, just to get him to rest”,_ Jaskier goes on, over-exaggerating his expressions, _“And to tell me what's bringing him down!”_

Geralt shakes his head, fighting a smile. Roach walks steadily on but turns her head to watch Jaskier, looking appropriately puzzled.

 _“But the bastard's a pest, I don't even jest”,_ Jaskier continues, visibly struggling to come up with rhymes on the fly. _"When I honestly say he would probably still, wear that mighty frown…”_

Jaskier reaches up to poke at the stubbornly downturned corner of Geralt's mouth, _”...and look grim enough to give you a chill…”_

Clever fingers furiously strumming up a crescendo, he takes a deep breath and belts out, _“If he saw me wearing a gown!”_

He breaks into giggles, and Geralt concedes to give a few slow claps for this astonishing performance. Jaskier grins, spreading his hands, and bows deeply, first to Geralt and then to Roach. The horse makes an amused snorting sound, and Jaskier pets her neck affectionately.

Geralt doesn't smile and he definitely doesn’t laugh quietly, despite what lies Jaskier might tell about it later. Jaskier's face might brighten as he searches Geralt's own for a reaction, but that's a Jaskier problem, nothing to do with how Geralt looks or feels.

He also spares no thought to Jaskier in women's clothing, none whatsoever.

“That was the worst thing I've ever heard”, Geralt says evenly.

Jaskier laughs, carefree and happy. “It was the worst thing I've ever sung! I'd be mortified if anyone else had heard!”

A beat of silence, and then: “Made you smile, though.”

“Did not.”

“Did too, you big old softie!”

-

Time passes and much happens, their roads diverging and joining again, and for a long time everything seems normal. They're comfortable with each other but not overly familiar, and when they travel together, they share easy companionship but few deep conversations. Geralt feels like there’s a distance between them, sometimes only the tiniest gap and sometimes a mile-wide chasm, but he can never cross it. Doesn’t want to, for fear of what he might find on the other side.

Jaskier seems content with their friendship as well, delighted to see Geralt every time they meet, but not looking at him like he looks at most young women and many men besides. It shouldn’t feel disconcerting; there’s no need for him to give Geralt those looks, everything is easier this way anyway. Any flirtation would only make things awkward between them. Geralt is _glad_ he’s not one of the many people Jaskier falls in love with at first glance. He is.

Roach snorts at him as if hearing his thoughts, and he murmurs at her, “Shut up. You know nothing.”

She seems to give him a withering look, but maybe that’s just his imagination.

-

It’s spring when they take up traveling together again. Jaskier is on the way to a city where he wants to get to know the high and the mighty and introduce them to his brand of dancing music. Geralt’s between jobs, and figures he might as well travel there as well. Nowadays there’s always some monster lurking near a city, snatching up a traveling merchant or two every once in a while.

On the way, they end up getting rid of a swarm of mutant bats haunting a roadside monastery half a day’s ride away from the city. As a thank-you from the local religious order, they receive a generous amount of coin. The logical conclusion, of course, is to ride hard for the city and drink away all of the money at the first tavern they spot.

Jaskier barely has time to eat and gulp down his second goblet of wine before people notice his lute and he’s asked to sing. Of course he complies when someone actually _asks_ to hear his yowling, and soon half of the patrons in the tavern are singing along with him.

Despite what Geralt might say about his skills, the bard is a brilliant crowd-pleaser. He gets people clapping along, his smile infectious and his voice encouraging. Coins clink onto his table as he takes requests and even lets a rowdy group of young women teach him one of the local drinking songs. He learns fast, and in no time he's accompanying them on the lute as almost everyone around them sings along, with varying degrees of talent and drunkenness.

At first Jaskier shoots little grins at Geralt in every turn, tipsy and glowing with the attention of everyone around him, but as the night progresses and people keep buying him drinks and appetizers, he stops looking back at Geralt and starts _looking_ at the patrons.

There’s a man who's been watching him right from the start of the first song, and this time Geralt gets to watch this dance all the way from the beginning.

The man watches Jaskier, unashamed, eyes glued to his lips, the sway of his hips as he moves around the room as he sings and plays, and Jaskier watches him right back. Smiles around a tune, throws in a wink for good measure.

Geralt feels a growl rising in his throat and swallows it down. This man is in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties, but in near-perfect physical condition. His arms must be at least as thick as Jaskier’s thighs, and Geralt doesn’t miss how Jaskier’s eyes slip down to look at the fabric of the man’s shirt stretching across the muscles. The man has board shoulders to match, and light brown hair, cut short and greying at the temples.

He's dressed cheaply but exuding an arrogant confidence that elevates his features from mostly-average to annoyingly handsome, even Geralt can see that. He smirks at Jaskier, making him blush faintly, and lifts his drink in a silent toast as Jaskier finishes a song with a flourish and a bow. Geralt should let them be and just leave, but something about the man’s face calls to his fists like a fire to a moth.

Jaskier finishes his last song for the night and bows again, laughing, as people throw him coins, and there’s a scattering of applause. Geralt finishes his ale and decides to retire for the night. He turns to go up to the modest two-bed room they’ve already paid for, but stops when Jaskier spots him leaving and calls out to him.

“Geralt -” Jaskier begins, almost jogging to catch up to him. “You alright? I was thinking of staying up for a while longer -” Here he glances back at the stranger who’s still got his eyes on him, and then back at Geralt. Something about his earnest face and the flush on his cheeks makes Geralt hurt inside.

“Find a place to stay, I’m taking the room.” He means it to sound understanding, like a blessing for Jaskier to take the handsome stranger up on the offer that is inevitably coming, but his words come out harsh and biting instead. Jaskier flinches from him, and then huffs, turning around and walking back towards the man, his shoulders seeming to slump a little.

-

Geralt takes a fast bath and the retires to the room, getting ready for bed. He sits there on the lumpy mattress and tries to think about anything other than Jaskier. If he lets his thoughts to stray to the bard, he'll start imagining all the things he could already be doing with that man, and it'll make him angry. He should avoid that, Jaskier's done nothing to deserve his anger, he's just been himself, like he always is - but still, does he truly have to _flaunt_ it like that -?

Geralt expects Jaskier to stay away for the whole night, so he’s startled when a mere few minutes after he's returned to the room after his bath, he hears Jaskier’s quiet steps outside. He recognizes them by sound, and then there’s a familiar knock at his door, brisk and rhythmical.

Geralt sighs and gets up from the bed, going to open the door. Jaskier looks sheepish but expectant, like he's positive he's going to share the room after all. He's holding his bag and lute, ready to drop them all over the floor like he always does.

His hair is mussed and his lips look swollen and there's a slight redness around his mouth, probably from stubble scratching at his skin. He's clearly been kissing someone passionately, so why is he here now? 

"Turns out my guy wasn't as keen as I'd thought", the bard frowns, disappointed, "and after I left his room and went back down, there wasn't anyone else who caught my eye, so - here I am."

He's so nonchalant about it, talking so openly about his failed conquest of another man. It's like he doesn't even care if anyone hears, even though he's likely to be shunned and possibly even beaten for it. Bards and musicians are already almost always considered 'suspect' as a default, especially pretty ones like Jaskier. Wouldn't it be easier and safer for someone as weak as him to just keep to women? He seemed to like them well enough.

"Why are you so eager to let random men use you, anyway", Geralt asks, still standing in the door, not letting Jaskier in until he answers. The bard gapes at him, clearly affronted.

"Well excuse me for wanting to have some fun every once in a while! It's not like you never do it!" 

"I don't risk my livelihood for it though, just to get taken like a whore." Can't Jaskier see how stupid and dangerous it is? 

Jaskier flinches like Geralt slapped him, but instead of becoming subdued, his eyes flash with anger.

"You don't get to say that to me, Geralt of Rivia", he hisses, his mouth twisting around the name like it tastes bad. He steps closer, getting in Geralt's face, cheeks burning red with fury.

"I think you're just jealous. Maybe once in your life you're not the most attractive person in a room and that's what bothers you. Maybe you're angry I'm not interested in you! Maybe it grates on you that someone like me dares to do what you're too _afraid_ to -" 

Geralt doesn't want to listen to this bullshit, so he pushes Jaskier off him, hissing, "No, I'm just surprised you're this pitiful." He spits the words like poison, and regrets them the second they leave his lips, but it's too late to take them back.

Jaskier takes a step back, and now there are tears shining in his eyes.

 _"Fuck you",_ he whispers, his lower lip trembling. "I could fuck the whole town if I wanted to. Every man who'd have me, until I was dripping with their spend and I couldn't walk - And I'd still never be as pitiful as you."

With that, he storms away, down the stairs and, for all Geralt knows, off to do exactly that, to fuck anyone who'll have him.

Geralt closes the door quietly and rests his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes and squeezing his hands into white-knuckled fists. His burning-hot anger dissipates as quickly as it rose, and he's left feeling hollow and lost without it.

Fuck.

Why the hell did he say those things? Why does seeing Jaskier with other men always make him like this? Seeing him with women never has, not to the same extent. Is it some kind of… misguided protective impulse? He's never felt this possessive over anyone, not even Yennefer.

Is he really just this much of an asshole? His brow furrows as he has to confront the fact that right now, he's being exactly as bad as the people he thought Jaskier should hide from. He's hurting the bard just as much, even though he'd never thought he could hurt him intentionally, would never want him to cry like that again -

So why the fuck is he being so vile about this? He's not against men fucking men, it's none of his business what other people do. He hates it that he has to even think about it like that, hates it that there are people who'd want to hurt Jaskier or anyone like him if they knew.

The lavender colour of all this isn't what he has a problem with. It's not really the sex of Jaskier's partners that infuriates him, it's just…

It's just that it could so easily be Geralt with him instead. Those people Jaskier lets close, those who can touch him - they look so much like Geralt. And Geralt knows Jaskier so well, surely he could be good for him - he'd be better because he's not just after some sweet young thing like the rest of them, he _knows_ Jaskier and he _cares_ -

So why has Jaskier never asked it of Geralt? Objectively he knows his body looks good, if one can look past the weird eyes and all the ugly scars, and Jaskier goes for older men anyway. They're friends, and Jaskier himself has said, numerous times, that he likes Geralt, that he likes being with him... so why is Geralt the only one he won't even try to have?

And why, exactly, does that make him feel so desperately angry and hurt?

The thoughts creep up on him and before he's aware enough of them to fight them and lock them away somewhere he doesn't have to face them, they're already upon him, screaming their ugly names into his face.

He's truly so fucking despicable that he'd drive Jaskier away and hurt him out of _jealousy._ All this time, he's been waiting for Jaskier to ask _him_ and to look at _him_ and to want _him._ But Jaskier doesn't, never has and definitely never will after what Geralt just said to him. Honestly, it's no wonder he doesn't.

Geralt turns around to lean his back against the wall, wiping his hands down his face. His cheeks and eyes are dry, but his face burns with shame and the shock of his realization. The room around him feels stiflingly small and without Jaskier's neverending chatter, the quiet of it is so violently loud it hurts his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and sorry for doing that to our boys!  
> As always, comments mean the world to me <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt huffs. “I’m also in the profession of having no feelings. That didn’t get me far.”
> 
> Jaskier tilts his head, thinking. “Good thing you finally seem ready to… talk about them?”
> 
> “I came after you”, Geralt points out, and in a way, that’s enough. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter kept getting longer and longer, so I decided to make it two separate chapters instead. Sorry about the confusion!  
> University has been getting in the way of me writing, but the final (this time it will really be the last one, I promise) chapter should be out pretty soon. Thank you for your patience and all the lovely comments <3

Geralt is lying down on top of the covers on his bed, painfully aware of Jaskier’s absence in the the bed next to the opposite wall. He doesn’t even try to sleep. He has a hard time of it on any normal night, so there’s next to no hope he’ll be able to do it now. He’ll get some meditation in closer to sunrise; even that would be arduous to try right now. He knows the next time he’ll really sleep is probably days away, only possible after he near-collapses from exhaustion.

The sheets are rough, scratching his cheek and neck. The room is cold, but Geralt doesn’t feel comfortable crawling under the covers and curling up alone.

Nothing will come of this silent vigil on this bed, other than a slow descent into madness, he decides after a while, and gets up. Might as well go back down to see if the innkeeper or her husband is still up and willing to serve him another beer or three.

He pulls on his boots but leaves the coat, armour and cloak behind. At least if Jaskier slinks back from wherever he went and returnes to the room, he’ll see Geralt hasn’t packed his things and disappeared on him. He feels exposed as he walks down the stairs in his shirtsleeves, hair loose and curling from the dampness he didn’t bother to towel out after his bath, but it’s no matter. If by some miracle he happens to run into Jaskier, it’ll probably help to look unarmed and vulnerable.

He goes slowly, silently, prefering to take scope of the situation downstairs before anyone notices him. The innkeeper’s man is still at the counter, looking sleepy and chatting quietly with an old man in a thick winter cloak. There are a few lonely figures at the tables, and a group of three women and a young girl playing cards, speaking amongst themselves quietly.

Geralt lets his gaze travel across the whole room, and there, in the darkest corner, farthest from the stairs, he sees Jaskier.

The bard is sitting with his shoulders hunched, cradling a large mug in front of him on the table. His lute is on the chair opposite him, his bag dropped haphazardly next to the table, spilling books and clothes onto the dirty floor. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice or to care.

Geralt can only see him in profile and he’s far away in a dim corner, but thanks to his witcher senses, Geralt isn’t spared of any telling detail. Focusing, he can smell the coffee in the mug Jaskier holds like a lifeline, knuckles white. He’s slouched small, but the determined set of his mouth tells Geralt he’s grinding his teeth. His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it and the eye Geralt can see is red from crying.

Fuck if Geralt doesn’t feel exactly like the monster he is, seeing Jaskier’s hurt written so clearly on his features. As he watches, Jaskier tilts his mug back and gulps down the last of its contents. He sighs quietly but doesn’t come get a refill, he just sets the mug down again and looks into it, like it holds answers to some unsaid question.

Despite his obvious sadness, Geralt is guiltily happy Jaskier has chosen to stay here, and hasn’t gone somewhere Geralt can’t follow. He goes to the counter and buys two beers, speaking quietly enough that Jaskier doesn’t hear him and recognize his voice.

“You his friend?” the man at the counter asks quietly, nodding towards the mournful bard as he pours beer from a jug into two mugs. “He’s right miserable, our bard is. Fancy doing something about it, witcher?”

Geralt has half a mind to make the man _eat_ the jug for interfering in what isn’t his business, but rampaging like a homicidal maniac probably wouldn’t help his quest for forgiveness, so he lets it go. Nods and takes the mugs, starting towards Jaskier. 

The closer he gets, the slower his steps, until he’s approaching slowly and carefully like Jaskier’s an easily-startled prey animal. He has no idea what he's looking to achieve here, if there is anything at all he can still salvage, but he has to at least try.

Jaskier looks up, frowning, but his eyes are red and sad and he looks like a lost puppy. He narrows his eyes up at Geralt, angry but apparently not surprised he's here.

Geralt gently takes the lute and carefully sets it on another chair, sits down across from Jaskier.

“Hello”, Jaskier says, starting the conversation like he almost always does, defiant. Expectant.

“Take this and let me talk for a bit”, Geralt says, sliding a mug over to Jaskier.

“Oh, no”, Jaskier laughs. “If you're going to begin that way, I don’t think you're off to a very good start, my dear witcher.”

The words drip venom, and Geralt nods, chastised. It’s true, he needs to slow down and think about what he’s saying. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be planning to run away yet; Geralt has time.

He begins with an honest apology. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinks at him and sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his brilliantly blue doublet and and it _hurts_ to see him so out of sorts.

“Not forgiven, I’m not that easy”, he says quietly. “Work for it.”

Geralt nods. “Fair enough.” He will, because this is important.

He clears his throat and shifts in his chair, feeling too large for it, awkward with his hands and feet like he hasn’t been since early youth. Jaskier watches him with those blue eyes, not demanding anything but at the same time looking like the smallest mistake might either send him into tears or make him get up and leave.

“I didn’t mean what I said, but that doesn’t change how shitty it was of me. You can hit me if you want.” That would be simple, a way for Jaskier to let out some of his anger and a way for Geralt to truly feel it; the physical has always been easier to understand and handle than the emotional.

“And break my hand on your face? No thanks”, Jaskier chuckles humourlessly.

“Or not, that’s fine”, Geralt concedes. Jaskier keeps looking at him, and meeting those blue, blue eyes is suddenly the hardest thing in the world. Geralt grinds his teeth and refuses to lower his gaze.

“I didn’t mean any of it”, he continues, and Jaskier makes a sound Geralt doesn’t understand. Jaskier is the one to break their eye contact, looking down into his beer, but Geralt nudges his foot wth his own boot under the table until Jaskier looks at him again.

“I said it because... I was confused and jealous. And that made me angry, and being angry made me an asshole.”

“Damn right it did”, Jaskier laughs, but now it's a little less bark and a little more softness. “I always knew you were mean, but fuck, Geralt. You really know where to hit for it to hurt, but - I suppose I should’ve expected that, you being in the profession of hitting things and all that.”

Geralt huffs. “I’m also in the profession of having no feelings. That didn’t get me far.”

Jaskier tilts his head, thinking. “Good thing you finally seem ready to… talk about them?”

“I came after you”, Geralt points out, and in a way, that’s enough. “I’m surprised you’re still here.” He tries to be soft and non-judgemental. _Why didn’t you go back to that man or find someone else,_ he doesn’t ask, but Jaskier seems to read his mind.

The bard lets out a shaky laugh. “That man I went with, he… his name is Borys - He said he saw our conversation and he thought he shouldn’t get between me and my angry lover.” He sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “Apparently that’s what we looked like.”

“Sorry”, Geralt starts but Jaskier interrupts him.

“It’s okay. He’s a good person, kind. A bit strange, really. He had a hand on me and then he asked if I really wanted to do it, or if I should get dressed and leave and - go make up with you instead.” Jaskier shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Can you imagine how easy life would be if I could just… if someone like that was enough? He wasn’t though, because I kept thinking I could be spending time with you instead, just… talking. How nice it would be to sing you a lullaby and watch you get so _angry.”_

There’s a squeezing feeling in Geralt’s chest, crushing his lungs and heart against his ribs. “Sorry”, he rasps again.

“Not your fault”, Jaskier sniffles. “I gathered my things and he kissed me on the forehead and told me not to worry, and sent me on my way.” He’s smiling sadly, and Geralt feels like growling. It doesn’t escape him that Jaskier left a perfectly charming and kind man to come to him for company, and Geralt just yelled at him and made him feel like shit. Not exactly a stellar trade-off.

There’s a moment of silence, during which Geralt tries to come up with a way to say what he wants in a way that won’t sound saccharine enough to seem fake, but that’ll still be honest. What comes out instead is a quiet half-question he already knows the answer to.

“It’s not a coincidence they all look like me.”

It took him some time to notice Jaskier has a type when it comes to men. He seems to love all women, no matter their size or shape or colouring, but with men - not so much.

Jaskier closes his eyes, then covers his face with his hands.

“No”, he says quietly, “Sorry. I never meant for you to know.”

“Why?” The word jumps out without permission, gruff and abrupt. Angry, almost.

Jaskier peeks at him through his fingers. “Because we’re friends, and I don't want to ruin that! And you like women, and you _don’t_ like men who like other men, and because I don’t know if you’re just my type or if my type _is you,_ and it’s fucking inconvenient and horrible!”

“Hmm.” There’s a little smile tugging at the corners of Geralt’s mouth.

 _“You’re_ inconvenient and horrible”, Jaskier corrects himself and kicks at Geralt’s shin under the table. Geralt smiles properly now, childishly trapping Jaskier’s ankle between his own and holding it hostage. Getting Jaskier to say these things feels good; having him here and not in someone else’s bed feels even better.

“One of those things isn’t right", he rumbles, but doesn't know how to continue.

Jaskier huffs. “Quit being like that! I expected you to be angry, or awkward at least”, Jaskier says quietly. “And I don’t know what do with that look you’re giving me. I still don't understand you and I feel like the natural approach here would be to just - just say to hell with it and kiss you, to see what would happen, but there’s this table.” He glares down at it like it’s done him personal harm by being in the way.

“And you’re just sitting there and letting me talk, and I’m saying too much, and I need you to say something right now or so help me, my next song will be a lamentation of what a mean, bad person and a terrible witcher you are -”

Geralt reaches out and puts a finger on Jaskier’s lips, stopping the torrent of words. Jaskier swallows so hard Geralt can easily hear it. A blush appears on Jaskier's cheeks and neck.

“I don’t… not like men who like men. I don’t like other men who like you”, Geralt admits, awkward and gruff and trying his best to will his own cheeks to stay pale.

“I… huh.” Jaskier blinks at him, once, twice. His blush darkens and an incredulous smile slowly lights up his face. The faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepen and there’s a flash of white teeth in a smile that’s somehow surprised, even after the drawn-out disaster this night’s been.

“Geralt… you’re terrible at showing that”, he laughs, accusatory and joyful and lovely.

“Fair”, he concedes with a tilt of his head, “I’ve been bottling it up.”

Jaskier chortles. “Oh, oh, have you really? I had no idea!”

Geralt narrows his eyes, but Jaskier keeps going. “Seriously, how can we be so bad at this communication thing? I’m supposed to be blessed with the greatest oral gifts on this earth, you’d think that’d include talking! But apparently not, gods… And _you -_ you have the emotional skills of an _infant - “_

“It kind of comes with the job”, Geralt hazards and suffers a venomous look from Jaskier that soon dissolves into a fond smile.

“You’re terrible”, the bard repeats softly. “What now? Because I have several ideas - a plethora, actually, but I’m not sure what you -”

“We should talk about this more”, Geralt says, “somewhere private. With a bed.”

“Hnng”, says Jaskier, almost choking on the words he was about to say but now swallows. “Alright. Okay. Yes, please.” He goes red again, all the way down his neck and to the chest hair peeking out of the open collar of his ridiculously elaborately embroidered undershirt. Geralt wants to kiss him everywhere. Can't wait to.

He leaves some coin on the table and takes Jaskier’s lute while the bard gathers his things into the bag they spilled out from, and then Geralt takes him by the arm, leading him to the stairs. The second they’re out of the sight of the people downstairs, Jaskier tugs free of Geralt’s hold and takes his hand instead, weaving their fingers together. The small gesture feels enormous, and Geralt silently marvels at how small and warm Jaskier’s hand is in his own.

They walk slowly, bumping into each other on every other step and sharing glances, little secret smiles, like a couple of snot-nosed little boys sneaking off to do something forbidden and exciting and fun.

There's no hurry, and that feels significant somehow. Like they're going at a pace Geralt can easily keep up with. Like it's fine that all of this is new and difficult, because Jaskier doesn't mind waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 Comments still make my day. I'll try to get the last chapter out as soon as possible!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Thank you to all of you who've read this, left kudos and commented, I love you so much and you mean the world to me. <3  
> Feel free to come and talk to me on tumblr at @trevardes if you're so inclined! This fic is done, but I have a lot of ideas for others, so stay tuned for those too.
> 
> There's a lot of talking and a lot of sex in this chapter, both of which were a delight to write. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The whole way toward the room, Jaskier looks at him like he’s received the best birthday gift ever, but it’s in a puzzle box he has no idea how to open. Geralt can understand him all too well; the situation is new, and he’s not sure they’re actually alright just yet. He has no idea what’s really going through Jaskier’s head besides the obvious happiness at their reconciliation and the want reddening his cheeks and quickening his pulse.

The look disappears as they reach the door, replaced with nerves as Jaskier smiles at Geralt, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Any second thoughts? Now’s still a good chance to run”, he jokes, slowly opening the door. “Might be awkward later.”

Geralt growls and pushes him inside, pulling the door closed behind them. He crowds Jaskier against it, at the same spot he was leaning on in despair just short while ago.

“Not going anywhere”, he rumbles and puts his hands on Jaskier’s hips. The movement is more hesitant than his words, but Jaskier sighs at the touch and relaxes a little. His hands slide up Geralt’s arms and end up on his shoulders, gently pulling him closer.

“No tables”, Jaskier whispers, his gaze dropping to Geralt’s lips and jumping back to his eyes again. He’s right, there’s nothing between them now, not even air as Geralt’s chest presses against Jaskier’s. They’re almost of a height, so he doesn’t have to lean down, but Jaskier feels slim and slight in his hold, pressed against Geralt’s bulk.

This close, Geralt is completely enveloped in Jaskier’s familiar scent; lavender soap, and the perfume he always uses - something woody, a little spicy almost, and underneath it all, a warm comforting scent that’s just _him._ A base part of Geralt wants to bury his face in Jaskier’s neck and scent him, breathe deep and lick up the pale column of his throat, bite there to leave his mark. He pushes the urge down; there’ll be time later, to stake his claim.

“No tables”, Geralt whispers back, closing his eyes, and lets Jaskier pull him into a kiss.

It’s slow and gentle, just the barest press of lips and a quiet sigh from one of them, Geralt doesn’t know who. Jaskier lets out a sound, almost a whine, and leans closer, deepening the kiss. Geralt wraps his arms tighter around the bard, holding him close and rumbling appreciatively as Jaskier tilts his head and opens his mouth for Geralt to explore.

He tastes like beer, and it’s fine, it’s new and heady and perfect. His breath hitches as Geralt presses against him harder, and his arms wrap around Geralt, fingers clutching at the back of his shirt. The kiss makes his head spin, even as it stays slow and almost careful, as if neither of them wants to scare the other away.

“Good?” Jaskier asks against Geralt’s lips, nudging his nose with his own.

“Mm”, Geralt says, smiling. Jaskier hums happily and kisses him again, and again. They stand there for a long time, just exploring, learning each other in this new way.

Jaskier leads him through this dance slowly, and for a time Geralt is content to lose himself in Jaskier’s hands and lips and soft sighs and his scent. Eventually, though, he becomes aware of both their erections, pressing together through several layers of clothing. He’s half-hard, and his hips slide against Jaskier almost without his permission. Jaskier nips at his lower lip and pulls back a little to look at Geralt.

“Not that I’d object to just standing here for all of eternity, because I wouldn’t, this is marvellous”, the bard whispers, “but I’d also be absolutely thrilled to move this to the very comfortable bed right next to us, if you’re fine with that kind of forward proposal.”

Geralt huffs out the smallest of laughs and disentangles himself from Jaskier, pulling him to the bed. Jaskier goes easily, smiling, a spark in his eye. He pushes at Geralt’s chest and Geralt let’s himself be toppled over onto the covers. Jaskier wastes no time in climbing over him and grinding their hips together, now with more leverage.

The sensation is stronger and Jaskier taking initiative ignites something in Geralt. He grabs Jaskier and pulls him down for a bruising kiss. Jaskier answers it with equal fervor and Geralt’s blood sings for him, needing to get closer. He grips Jaskier’s mostly-open doublet and rips it open the rest of the way, a few buttons tearing off and falling somewhere in the sheets and on the floor. Jaskier whines helplessly and grinds his hips again as Geralt pulls the doublet off and tugs his undershirt out of his pants, eager to get his hands on bare skin.

“Let’s ignore how incredibly hot I found that just now”, Jaskier pants, affronted. “You’re paying to have that fixed!”

“I’ll fix it for you, you useless noble”, Geralt growls and begins unbuttoning Jaskier’s undershirt, a little gentler now. Jaskier laughs against his lips, bright and lovely.

“Thank the gods you’re not in armour”, he says, tugging at the ties of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt silences him with a kiss, and they keep trading little pecks between getting rid of the rest of their clothes.

Soon, he has a naked Jaskier on his lap, and he wants to look, but he also can’t detach his lips from Jaskier’s skin long enough for that to be possible. He makes do with just feeling him, sliding his hands down along the warm, smooth skin of his sides and thighs. Jaskier hums, pleased, and Geralt kisses a trail down his throat, to his chest, smiling as Jaskier’s chest hair tickles his cheek.

It’s hitting him now that Jaskier is very obviously very male, and sex is going to happen in the near future.

Geralt is... new to this. He’s confident enough in his skills, only affirmed more as Jaskier moans appreciatively when Geralt reaches a nipple, nips at it and then soothes it with kisses. He’s good with his body and with bodies in general, it’s just that this is something he never thought he’d end up doing.

Jaskier’s cock is a very hard and very obvious presence between them, and though it doesn’t _scare_ Geralt per say, it does make him feel a little wrong-footed.

“I trust you know I have no experience in… this”, he rasps, burying his face in the juncture of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder. If he was someone else, he might have been blushing.

Gentle hands come up to cradle his head, petting his hair.

“Never been with a man before?”

Geralt snorts. “I’m not hypocritical enough to say the things I did, if I had.”

“Don’t kill me when I say this, but… it fills me with unholy glee to be your first. Like I’m conquering a new land or taking the virginity of a beautiful maiden - “

He breaks off in a yelp as Geralt tilts him off his lap and follows suit, rolling them until he’s caging Jaskier against the mattress.

“Shut up, Jaskier”, he rumbles and kisses him again, grinding their now naked bodies together. Jaskier takes this in stride and wraps every limb around him like an amorous octopus, basically purring with pleasure.

Geralt’s cock fits nicely in the crease of Jaskier’s thigh and groin, and he rolls his hips, pushing Jaskier up on the bed. Jaskier hums and answers the movement with one of his own, hips rising off the bed, impossibly close to Geralt. He opens his eyes to look at Jaskier, though this close he can’t really see much. The room is dim, lit only by a single oil lamp. Geralt’s hair falls around them, casting further shadows on Jaskier’s face, but his witcher eyes have no problem seeing Jaskier.

He looks soft and beautiful, a flush high on his cheeks. He opens his eyes to look at Geralt when he feels he’s being watched. They share a smile, though Geralt has to quickly break eye contact, afraid he’ll say things he’s not ready for just yet. He focuses on lowering himself enough to gently bite Jaskier’s neck. The bard moans, more melodic than most of his songs.

“Why didn't we do this sooner, fuck - “ Jaskier pants as Geralt’s hand travels along his side again, towards his waiting cock. The words stop him in his tracks and he sighs against Jaskier’s skin.

That’s a conversation that needs to be had at some point, and maybe that point should be now, rather than later.

“Why didn't you just- take me”, Jaskier whines. “We could’ve been doing this for a long time already - ”

“I thought you weren’t interested in me”, Geralt says, and Jaskier sputters and pulls further back to look at him, incredulous.

“After you saw me with several people who were _clearly_ stand-ins for you?!”

“You might’ve liked their... personalities.”

Jaskier chortles and Geralt smiles, just a little. 

“How much of it was on purpose?” 

“I don’t know”, Jaskier muses. “It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing it mostly just to have fun and sate my needs... But I did try to discern your reaction whenever you happened to see something.”

Geralt looks at him, and Jaskier huffs.

“And no, I had no idea what you were actually thinking!”

“You talk about everything all the time, why not just ask about that too?” He tries for a gently bullying tone, but Jaskier goes serious and his happy glow seems to dim.

“Would you have taken kindly to the idea when you first saw me with a man?” he asks quietly.

Geralt thinks back to his reaction to that obvious morning-after. He hadn’t been _disgusted_ , but he had been unsettled even by that short, innocent kiss and the knowledge of what had happened the night before it. Had Jaskier approached him then, had he asked Geralt to be the one kissing him… no, Geralt wouldn’t have taken it well. It had still been too new of a thing to even consider.

“But later -” he tries, but Jaskier goes on forcefully.

“Would you have taken to it kindly in that tavern where we met?” He meets Geralt’s gaze, embarrassed but level, and suddenly nothing about this conversation is light-hearted anymore.

“How would you have reacted if I’d thrown the bread out of my pants and just… told you to take me upstairs because I wanted you to fuck me until I couldn’t think, much less walk. If, after Dol Blathanna, I’d written you a love song instead of the money-making one?”

His eyes glitter with something like unshed tears. Geralt feels the pain of them in his chest, feels Jaskier trembling against him so lightly it’s almost not there at all.

“Gods, Jaskier”, he whispers, hoarse. “That long?”

“That long.” Jaskier looks scared and defiant and gorgeous. Not as young as he was, and not as innocent, but _gorgeous._ Brows furrowed, blue eyes deep and serious, he’s the most precious thing Geralt’s ever held.

“Fuck”, Geralt says quietly, “we’re stupid.”

Images flash in his mind, Jaskier with other men and with women, Jaskier alone… and how if he’d had his shit together, Geralt might’ve been a part of those pictures, right from the start.

“It's not like I've been actively pining for you all these years”, Jaskier pouts up at him. “I loved a lot of women in the meantime, and a lot of men who looked nothing like you.”

Geralt growls in jealous anger, but Jaskier doesn’t stop talking. “It’s not like I needed a doppler of you to settle down with. I couldn’t have the real thing, so believe it or not, most of the time I was doing a fine job of putting you out of my mind.”

“You can have the real thing, now”, Geralt promises quietly, and startles a smile onto Jaskier’s face.

“Imagine that”, Jaskier smiles, a little in awe, and Geralt leans in to kiss him again, as gentle as he knows how to be.

For Geralt sex has just been sex for the longest time. Fulfilling a need, no deep personal connection needed. Yennefer was more than that, an exception, but she never came close to what Jaskier is for Geralt. For a long time the bard has been in the little box labeled ‘friends’, in a way much closer to Geralt than anyone he’s slept with. What they have now is a weird hybrid Geralt’s never really experienced before. There have been women he cared about, who he fucked more than once and whose company he enjoyed, but this is different.

He’s burning up with desire, but he also wants to protect Jaskier, wants to keep him warm and safe. Wants to touch him everywhere and see all the stupid faces he makes when he’s feeling so good he loses control of everything.

He reaches Jaskier’s cock, finally, and is relieved when it feels natural in his hand, hot and heavy and a part of Jaskier and therefore lovely. Jaskier gasps and smiles and makes beautiful sounds when Geralt finds a rhythm that works for him.

Jaskier throws his head back and bites his lip, eyes closed, whining, urging Geralt on, and seeing him like this fills him with a dark, secret wanting. No-one else will ever see Jaskier like this again if it’s up to Geralt. He knows he’s a possessive bastard but he wants to be the only one to cherish Jaskier like this, the only one Jaskier comes to when he wants to be tuched and held.

“Let me - “ Jaskier pants and wraps a had around Geralt’s cock, and his touch is sure and firm. It gives him a smug sort of satisfaction how Jaskier’s thin, clever fingers can’t wrap anywhere near all the way around it. Jaskier is good with his hands though, Geralt finds, growling at a particularly beautiful twist of his hand.

“I love this”, Jaskier says, emphasizing his words with a buck of his hips, his breath hitching when Geralt answers with a gentle squeeze of his hand, “but do you think you’d be ready for more tonight? Because I really, truly want you to fuck me.”

He says it with such a serious and earnest look, and want roils around inside Geralt, burning and possessing him. Geralt groans and kisses Jaskier, hard.

“Yes”, he says, simply, wondering at how a single word can make Jaskier smile so blindingly.

“Brilliant!” he says, leaning up to plant a sweet kiss on Geralt’s lips and another on his cheek. “There’s oil… in my trousers, I think. Go get it.”

Geralt doesn’t like being ordered and he doesn’t want to leave the warmth of Jaskier’s body, but the promise of what’s to come is too enticing for him not to obey the bard. He rises and goes to root through the pile of clothes on the floor. He quickly finds the little bottle of faintly scented oil, noticing it looks as expensive and high quality as one might expect from a luxury-loving noble. Shaking his head in exasperation, he returns with the bottle, trying not to think about how it’s only half-full and how it wasn’t originally for him tonight.

He’ll have to get over his jealousy for Jaskier’s past partners, because in a way, it’s all been for him, for years. He leans over Jaskier and kisses him so gently it’s almost painful.

“What?” Jaskier asks, just as gentle, but Geralt just shakes his head, giving him the oil.

“How do you usually do this?”

If Jaskier wanted to fuck him instead, Geralt thinks he would be alright with it, even if the thought fills him with doubt and nerves. Something about it feels enticing, too, and he has no doubt that with someone as adventurous as Jaskier, he’ll surely get to try that as well, probably sooner rather than later.

“Usually I like to prepare myself, but I really like your hands”, Jaskier confesses. “So, if you’d be so kind?”

Geralt nods and Jaskier pulls him into the cradle of his arms, and spreads knees. Geralt goes closer, breathes in his scent and takes back the oil as Jaskier offers it. He pulls the stopper out with his teeth, and fights a deranged chuckle as his first impulse is to chug the contents like they’re a witcher’s potion. The bottle’s so similar, and deciding by Jaskier’s giggle, the image occurs to him too. He claps a hand over his lips, eyes dancing with mirth. Geralt indulges his playful mood, nipping at the back of his fingers until he moves them and can be kissed again. Distracted by the feel of Jaskier’s soft lips, Geralt pours more of the oil on the sheets than his fingers, but they’ll make do. It’s slick and cool, and he rubs his fingers together, trying to warm it up.

“Start with one”, Jaskier tells him. “It’s not going to take a long time, I want you too badly.”

Geralt takes his pretty legs and lifts them, settles them on his hips. Jaskier rests them against him, lying back and letting Geralt move him. He’s offering himself up to be seen and touched, and fuck, he’s gorgeous. Geralt has to take a moment again just to look at him.

Jaskier is nowhere similar to a woman or anything Geralt’s used to; no soft breasts, just small pink nipples, dark hair on his chest and in a cute trail leading from his navel to his cock. Geralt had never touched one that wasn’t his own before tonight, but now Jaskier’s is already familiar. Geralt reaches for it, takes it in hand. It’s heavy and very, very hard, but the skin is soft. A pearl of precome crowns the tip until Geralt swipes it with his thumb, strokes down and lets it ease his way. The touch makes Jaskier hum low in his chest.

There’s dark hair at the base, and his cock is smaller than Geralts, yes, but proportionate. Maybe it shouldn’t be called pretty, but Geralt doesn’t know how else to describe it. Nothing about it feels unfamiliar or daunting like he though it might; he wants to find out how to touch it better, wants to put his mouth on it actually, but that’ll come later.

Jaskier squirms a little under his gaze but says nothing, and Geralt gives him a few experimental strokes. It’s different now that he’s watching Jaskier, seeing every little twitch he makes. Jaskier closes his eyes and whines, impatient, and Geralt has to lean down to taste the sound.

“Get on with it”, jaskier quips against his lips after indulging him for a moment, and Geralt growls, biting him and earning another moan, before rising back up. He hitches Jaskier higher to see better, and slips his fingers under the pretty cock and balls, to warm, pink skin where even the slightest brush of fingers makes Jaskier tremble in anticipation.

“Good?”

“Good”, Jaskier smiles up at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling happily. Geralt presses a slicked finger against his hole and after a bit of resistance, inside him into the tight warmth. Jaskier closes his eyes again, still smiling, and seems to make an effort to relax around the tentative intrusion.

This is new; Geralt’s fingered women, but this can’t really be compared. Jaskier feels tighter and unfamiliar - simultaneously fragile and sturdy enough Geralt can trust he won’t break.

“There’s a spot - do you know?” Jaskier says, “quirk your finger a bit?”

Geralt’s heard of it, but it shocks him a bit when he finds it and Jaskier moans loudly, his hips bucking at the touch. That, at least, is familiar. Geralt focuses on nudging and rubbing there, getting him to relax a little more. He adds another finger when Jaskier asks for it, and soon Jaskier pants that he’s ready. Geralt isn’t so sure, but he trusts Jaskier’s judgement in this, if not in much else.

He gathers Jaskier close and then they’re kissing again and he’s directing his cock with a hand and then - Jaskier groans into the kiss as Geralt finally pushes inside, caging him against the mattress and panting at the tightness, the closeness. Jaskier’s arms wrap around him, fingers burying in his hair, and he trembles as he tries to adjust to Geralt deep inside him.

“Go ahead”, he whispers, and Geralt starts moving.

It’s incredible; Jaskier feels hot and tight and has a way of squeezing his muscles around Geralt in a way that drives him wild. They’re completely tangled in each other and there’s no space between them, even when Geralt pulls almost all the way out, and then pushes back in. Jaskier makes small, punched-out sounds, holding on for dear life. Geralt presses their foreheads together and tries to keep his hips from snapping into a fast rhythm, not wanting to hurt Jaskier.

He’s gentle and goes slow, until Jaskier starts to try and move against him faster, huffing when Geralt stops moving altogether.

“Come on, you can go harder, I won’t break”, he promises, looking up at Geralt through his lashes. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to look as perfect as possible, like he’s inviting Geralt to ruin him. He shifts around, trying to get Geralt to keep moving.

“Are you sure”, Geralt growls holding him in place. He moves again but goes just as slow as he likes, some dark part of him enjoying how Jaskier whines and squirms.He tries to push back against Geralt to get more friction but it’s no use, he’s weaker than Geralt and powerless in his hold. Geralt intends to make love to him, slow as molasses and just as sweet, because damn it, he’s become a sentimental fool and their first time should be a mirror to how he intends to be with Jaskier in the future. Unhurried and as gentle as he can be.

“Do you have any idea”, Jaskier says with a devilish glint in his eye, arrogant smirk forming on his pretty lips, “How many times I've been fucked hard, while I was imagining it was you?”

Geralt growls, hips snapping quick in anger, once, twice, gentleness flying out of the window. Jaskier moans through his smile, moving with Geralt, his breath pushed out of him in pants by the force of the thrusts.

“Are you seriously trying to make me angry so I’ll fuck you harder”, Geralt growls.

“I am, yes, you’re very smart”, Jaskier chuckles breathily. “I’m glad to know it works on you.”

“Brat”, Geralt sighs, exasperated, infatuated. He gives in and puts his back into it, grabbing Jaskier by the hips and thrusting hard. Jaskier makes a sound that can only be described as a yelp, and as Geralt keeps up the punishing pace, his breathing gets hitchy and he goes limp in Geralt’s hold. Only his hands retain any strength and squeeze at Geralt’s arms as he pants and moans and takes it so well, enjoying every second. There are tears in his eyes and his chest heaves and Geralt gets a hand on his cock, pulls in rhythm with his thrusts.

“You want me to make you feel this. That it’s me.” His words come out harsh, snarled between thrusts. He’s stating the obvious, but Jaskier moans and nods, seems to like hearing it said out loud like this, his feelings laid bare between them. Despite what he might say, Geralt enjoys it too; knowing he’s the only one who can keep this up, the only one who could pick Jaskier up and fuck him for hours, giving him nothing to hold onto except Geralt. He’s the only one Jaskier wants this from, now, and the thought makes heat gather inside him, the fire of it burning the base of his spine and tingling in his hands until they hold Jaskier as hard as they can without breaking him.

“Harder?” he asks quietly, almost gently still, and Jaskier almost sobs.

“Yes, please”, he begs, and Geralt obeys. He picks up the pace, slipping a hand under Jaskier’s lower back and lifting him up so he has more leverage, so he can thrust in harder.

He wouldn’t want to be sleeping in any of the rooms near theirs right now, because as he rams into the good spot inside Jaskier again and again, punishingly hard, the bard gets so loud it’s almost screaming.

He seems to be completely gone, sweating and sobbing with Geralt’s movements and shaking as he nears the edge. He’s sweet enough to remember to squeeze his muscles around Geralt’s cock, pulling him in and making the drag out deliciously tight. Geralt groans and leans closer over him, and Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes but searches blindly for his lips. Geralt kisses him deeply, and his taste and scent envelop him completely. There’s nothing in the world now except for Jaskier and his sweet noises and his beautiful, delicate hands squeezing bruises into Geralt’s arms and holding him close, holding him together.

They only need a few more thrusts and pulls of Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s cock, and then Jaskier’s coming, whining high in his throat and painting his stomach with come. He tightens around Geralt as his whole body draws taut and shakes, and Geralt follows him over that heady edge, spilling deep inside him.

He pulls out gingerly, shushing Jaskier’s displeased whine, and lies down on his side, opening his arms. Jaskier immediately snuggles close, and they end up nose to nose, just looking at each other.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d never have thought that was your first time”, Jaskier smirks at him, and meets him eagerly when Geralt goes to silence him with a kiss. His hand travels along Jaskier’s side, over the sweet curve of his arse, seeking out the place where he’s still a little loose and leaking Geralt’s come. Jaskier shudders against him and buries his face in Geralt’s hair as Geralt pushes two fingers in him, enjoying the concrete evidence of Jaskier letting him possess him in the most intimate way possible. He whines beautifully as Geralt finds his abused prostate and teases it a little, and Geralt smiles against his temple.

“Do _not_ ask if we can go again right now”, Jaskier warns him very strictly, but kisses his neck a moment later. “Maybe in the morning, if you’re very good to me.”

“Hmm”, Geralt says and gently pulls his hand away, not willing to tease Jaskier beyond his limits. Besides, he’s not as young as he once was, and though another round sounds great, he can feel sleep creeping around the edges of his consciousness, looking to claim him the moment he lets it.

“If I get boyfriend privileges”, Jaskier continues.

“Sounds terrifying. What do they entail?”

“Nothing horrible, just the usual. Rides on your horse. Honest opinions and critique on my singing. Consisting of actual words! Stares and grunts won't cut it.”

He's playing with Geralt's chest hair, petting it, and Geralt thinks he’ll have a very hard time trying to deny him anything anymore.

“If it gets you to stop pestering me about it, maybe I can manage it.”

Jaskier leans up to look at him, smiling so gently Geralt doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He nuzzles against Geralt’s cheek and then drops a little kiss at the corner of his eye where there are wrinkles brought on by worrying and frowning at least as much as by age.

“Do you have a thing for old men”, he asks laconically, smirking at Jaskier’s affronted look.

“No, just you”, Jaskier says. Somehow it warms Geralt up inside, but he lifts an eyebrow. Jaskier covers his face with a hand.

“A little bit”, he gives in. “I just like being the cutest person in any given situation. It gets me out of a lot of trouble.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh, settling his hands on Jaskier's back, holding him close. “Gets you into a lot of trouble too.”

Jaskier chuckles, nodding. “Why, dear witcher, are you jealous?”

“No, just thinking about how simple you seem now.”

“Simple?! Excuse _you-”_ Jaskier begins, affronted, but Geralt silences him with a finger on his lips.

“Like you know what you're about. You like who you like, and you aren't ashamed, and you are who you are, and you accept it completely.” Unlike Geralt himself, who is a notoriously self-denying fool.

Jaskier smiles self-consciously, shifting a little in Geralt’s embrace. “Well! Maybe I know what I like, but I'll have you know not all my male partners have been cheap knockoffs of you!”

“No?” he can’t help tilting his head doubtingly, in a way he knows is infuriating.

“No!” Jaskier huffs. “There was one man who was younger than me - yes, only one, stop laughing at me!” he pouts and Geralt has to resist the urge to silence him with an onslaught of kisses.

“You’re horrible”, Jaskier continues, “But now that I think about it, he had long blonde hair, never mind -”

He swats at Geralt’s chest as he sees his mouth quirk into a grin again, and keeps going. “There was a half-elf with the most gorgeous long legs and the most sensitive ears…”  
He leans in to nip at Geralt’s ear and only laughs at his answering growl.

“And once, I bedded a dwarf! A redheaded one at that. The things he could do with his tongue…”

Geralt growls again, sliding his hands lower until he has a possessive grip on Jaskier's behind again.

“Let me guess, he was the silent, brooding type”, he says, half-jokingly, and is rewarded with an incredulous look.

“How did you -?” Jaskier demands, and then laughs again. “Oh, fuck you, Geralt of Rivia! Just because I happen to be in love with you doesn't mean you occupy my every waking thought -”

Oh.

Geralt looks at him, eyes wide. He suspected, knew almost for certain, but _love_ is a terribly large thing for such a little word.

Jaskier’s brain seems to catch up to his mouth with a bit of a delay. “Aaand there it is”, he winces. “I said it, didn't I.”

Geralt hums and Jaskier groans, burying his face in Geralt's chest again, his hair tickling Geralt's collarbone. His hands come up again, slow and a little hesitant, one to hold Jaskier around the small of his back, the other to cradle the back of his neck.

"Are you freaking out?” Jaskier mumbles.

“I'm not freaking out”, Geralt promises, and is a little surprised to find that no, he really isn’t. Feelings of any kind are an unfamiliar territory he doesn’t know how to navigate, but with Jaskier here by his side, warm and sweet-smelling and breathing calmly, he thinks maybe they aren’t so bad.

Jaskier sighs, relieved, and his hand finds Geralt’s, his delicate musician’s fingers holding Geralt’s larger ones with unwavering strength and surety. Maybe Jaskier doesn’t yet realize that he’s holding Geralt’s heart the same way; it’s his to break or to keep.

The thought should terrify him, but he’s beginning to realize it doesn’t, not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! <3<3 I'd love a comment, or if you want to come chat about The Witcher, or anything really, head on over to tumblr @trevardes!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [How Jaskier F*cked His Way Across the Continent and into Geralt's Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25480087) by [bleuvelvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuvelvet/pseuds/bleuvelvet)




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